about them, and the other men stared in stupid wonder.

"I do not rave!" the Girondin answered, standing in the middle of the
room, the master of the situation. "I tell but the fact. Mark the three
lighted candles in yonder upper window. They are a signal that
Robespierre is arrested. Go, if you doubt me, and ask. Or--you need not.
Listen, listen!" With a gesture of command, he raised his hand, and all
stood silent. For an instant there seemed equal silence in the streets
below; but gradually as they listened there grew out of this silence a
distant hollow murmur, as of a great sea swelling higher and louder with
each moment. The face of more than one in the room lost its colour.

"The Faubourgs are rising," muttered the Commissary uneasily. "There is
something amiss."

"On the contrary," answered the Girondin quietly, "there is nothing
amiss, but things are in a fair way to be set straight. If you will
take my advice you will tear up that warrant, my friend. To-morrow it
will be more dangerous to you than to me. The Terror of these days is
over," he continued solemnly. "For those who have profited by it the
reckoning remains!"

M. Mirande was right. Abruptly as this narration ends, the Terror, so
famous in history, came to its end; and many a life held worthless a few
minutes before was saved. For twenty-four hours indeed the fate of
Robespierre and indirectly of our friends hung in the balance, all men
trembling and watching what would happen and who would prevail. Then he
fell, and the cruelty of his rule recoiled on his associates. What
became of Baudouin is not known for certain, though one tale alleges
that he was met and murdered by a company of Royalists near Nantes, and
another, that he was guillotined under another name with Fouquier
Tinville and his gang. Enough that he disappeared unmarked and
unregretted, along with many others of the baser and more obscure
adventurers of the time.

Of Bercy and Corinne, re-wedded under circumstances so strange and so
abnormal, we know only that their descendants, well versed in this
tradition of the family, still flourish on the Loire, and often and
often tell this tale under the walnut-trees on summer evenings. Nor are
there wanting to-day both a Corinne and a Claire.

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!

On the moorland above the old grey village of Carhaix, in
Finistere--Finistere, the most westerly province of Brittany--stands a
cottage, built, as all the cottages